


The Grand Christmas Jumper Contest

by Into_Dorkness



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcoholism, Drug Use, Theft, kidnap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:19:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2732252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Into_Dorkness/pseuds/Into_Dorkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A celebration of every nation’s imagination and craftsmanship, this holiday season will see the countries of the World battle it out for the title of best Christmas jumper! The results are guaranteed to be unique, ridiculous and remarkably disturbing…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The formal meeting discussing the effects of satellite debris in the atmosphere surrounding the Earth had concluded. The conference had been held in Russia, so Ivan was exhibiting a creepy chirpiness. This caused many of the nations great discomfort and weariness, not to mention the harsh Russian winter that many had to fight through to get to the meeting. However, it was the 10th of December, and every Western nation had one thing on their mind – Christmas. They could feel the excitement from their citizens, the warmth and the love, causing many of the countries to be in unusually high spirits. Everyone was preparing to leave their seats and head home when a jolly voice broke through the steady stream of chatter.

“Gather round everybody! Me and Eduard have a proposal for you all~” Finland called merrily, motioning his hand to where he was standing beside Estonia. The Baltic nation sat on his chair readily, his laptop open upon the polished wood of the wide meeting table.

Every other nation around the room began whispering sceptically among themselves, curious to see what the fuss was all about.

“Dude, isn’t this exciting?” America whispered (whose whispering voice was barely a decibel lower than his regular voice) to England as he got up from his seat. “Tino and Eduard always come up with wacky-ass ideas - I bet they have an equally kickass party plan for this Christmas!” The American then started jumping up and down uncontrollably, much to Arthur’s surprise.

“Bloody hell lad, control yourself! How many coffees did you have this morning?” the Englishman asked fearfully as he tried to hold Alfred down by his shoulders.

“12! But that’s not important right now! Let’s go see!” and with that, Alfred shot from Arthur and zoomed his way to claim a space behind Eduard’s laptop. Tino’s fellow Nordics (+ one Sealand) were already close by for support, as were Lithuania, Poland and Latvia. Eventually every nation was in close proximity to Tino and Eduard. The two countries gave each other a prompting nod before starting their presentation. Tino cleared his throat.

“Hello, everyone! As you are all probably aware, Christmas is almost upon us,” he announced. Most of the Western nations gave small smiles at the thought of Christmas – Alfred was grinning like a madman – while others looked disinterested (namely the Arab nations), and some offended: China was glaring, his arms crossed.

Tino continued, “…And in the spirit of tradition, there will be a Christmas gathering! However, due to a string of complaints about the aftermath of our parties: property damage…” - his eyes flicked to Denmark - “…underage drinking…” - Sealand smiled sheepishly at this - “…and attempted murder…” - America glared at Russia, who smiled sweetly back at him - “Eduard and I have organised a more respectable affair this year”. He gestured to the Estonian.

“Yes, thank you Tino. We have prepared a little competition for everyone to take part in,” said the Baltic as he proceeded to click the mouse pad of his laptop. The rest of the nations leaned in; some having to crane their necks in order to see what was being displayed on Estonia’s laptop. Everyone went quiet.

“What does it say?” Monaco asked no-one in particular, from somewhere at the back of the crowd.

“‘ _The Grand Knitted Christmas Jumper Contest’_ ,” Austria read aloud.

There was silence in the room for a long time – probably the quietest a room full of nations has ever been. Assessing the unimpressed atmosphere from their audience, Eduard digressed.

“Y-yes. It’s an opportunity for each nation to individually express their unique personality and subsequent cultures. There will be prizes for first, second and third pla-“

“Why can’t we just, like, have a huge party like we always do?” Feliks pouted.

“Yeah, knitted jumpers aren’t exactly exciting!” Gilbert exclaimed indignantly.

Eduard tried to reason: “We can’t just do the same generic thing every single year, plus the complaints-”

“You always were quite the hipster, Estonia” Ivan said cheerfully from behind him, placing one giant hand on the Baltic nation’s shoulder. Eduard shivered.

“I have better idea!” Yao proclaimed, “Why don’t everybody celebrate Chinese New Year instead? Agreed? Ok good – meeting dismissed, you may all go home now!”

Korea put his hand around Yao’s arm gently. “Come one Grandpa, It’s time for your medicine-“

“How dare you! I am the People’s Republic of China! Do not touch me- Aiyaaah!” the Chinaman was now attempting to behead Yong Soo with a Kung Fu chop. In response to this sudden outbreak of violence, Hong Kong grabbed Yao’s other arm whilst Taiwan and Macau took up his legs. Taiwan – still holding China’s thrashing leg - turned to the other nations and bowed.

“We apologise for the inconvenience. It seems that teacher forget to take his pills today...” she said.

With that, the four Asian nations marched the raving Yao out of the meeting room.

“…I would gladly celebrate Chinese New Year if it means I can get pissed and not have to bother with knitted cardies!” Australia vented, although he’d never say such a thing in front of Yao. Almost everyone in the room nodded and cheered in agreement. Eduard glanced nervously to Tino for support. The Finn pulled out a chair, planted his foot on the seat and climbed boldly on the meeting table, hands on his hips.

“Listen to me!” the Finn thundered. His face was calm, yet the fire in his violet eyes said ‘I’ll snipe your Grandma and feed her innards to Hanatamago’. The room immediately silenced. “The competition will be held at our place, 9pm sharp. I expect you all to be there.” With a final glare at the gathered party, Finland skipped down from the table cheerfully and turned to Sweden. “Come on, Swe; we have lots of preparations to make.” Berwald hitched Peter onto his shoulders and the trio flounced out of the room, followed by Mathias, Lukas and Emil. The room was quiet for some time before anyone was brave enough to speak.

“Well, I’d rather not get on _his_ bad side,” Francis admitted. “What are the rules of this contest, Eduard?”

Said Baltic adjusted his glasses and began to read from the laptop screen. “Each nation must exhibit a homemade jumper. It should represent something about yourself, yet still follow the theme of Christmas. Of course if you do not particularly celebrate Christmas, you will not be ruled out of the proceedings,” - Turkey and Egypt perked up – “…you may follow the theme of any major festival you celebrate”.

“Well, that doesn’t sound too difficult.” Arthur acknowledged.

“Ja, sounds gut.” agreed Ludwig.

Everyone seemed to be more accepting of Tino and Eduard’s proposal now that they had been threatened into doing so. They began chatting among themselves about what they should incorporate onto their sweaters.

Eduard shut his laptop and stood up. “If everyone is clear on the proceedings, then I’ll be going-“

“Ooh, but Estonia, I could really use your help knitting my entry~” Ivan whined as he grabbed Estonia from behind and wrapped his thick arms around the other nation’s chest. Eduard gave a nervous laugh as he gingerly tried to lift the Russian’s arms off of him. They didn’t budge.

“I’m sorry buddy-friend, but I have my own preparations I need to-” Eduard was cut off by Ivan’s grip tightening - only slightly, but Eduard knew a warning when he saw/felt one. Especially one from Russia.

“Ah! I’m so glad I have my Estonia to help me,” Ivan concluded happily, marching Eduard from the meeting room, arms still enveloping him.

* * *

 

 Feliciano waved Ludwig goodbye (not before lots of hugging and cheek kissing) and then threaded his arm around Lovino’s. South Italy turned to his brother, angry with embarrassment. However, upon seeing Feli smiling sweetly back at him, his own face softened. Romano sighed and started towards the exit with his little brother in tow. “Let’s go, Veneziano”

“Yay!” Feliciano cheered, “Grande fratello Romano never lets me hold his arm! Ve~, it really must be Christmas!”

“Shut up! You’re ruining the momento!” Lovino roared back at him.

Ludwig watched the two Italian’s walk together until they had left the meeting room, a gentle smile on his strong face.

“Would you like to link arms too, Bruder?” Gilbert sneered in his ear.

“Ack! Why must you always spoil a lovely moment?” Ludwig reprimanded.

“Kesesese, don’t tell me you’re going all soft on me, West!”

Ludwig sighed. “Let’s just leave already,” He said irritably.

The two nations exited the meeting room via one of its many doors, walking side by side.

“So, what do you think of this whole ‘Knitted Jumper Competition’?” inquired Ludwig.

“I don’t know, I think it could be interesting…” Gilbert pondered.

Ludwig raised an eyebrow. “Really? Honestly I thought you would find it tedious.”

“Well, obviously the party will need a little kick-starting…” the former nation replied with a smirk.

“What are you plotting this time, Bruder?” warned Ludwig.

Gilbert winked.

12th of December

Arthur had finally got back to England; back to his home. He had made a special effort to walk from the train station to his lodgings rather than hailing a taxi, as he was trying to gain inspiration for his Christmas jumper. He walked past H&M and Topshop and then came upon a mannequin display in the window of Primark. A certain jumper that decorated one of the mannequins had caught his eye.

“ _’Bah, Humbug’_ ,” Arthur read from the jumper. “Hmm, that could do the trick-” he caught himself when he remembered that the jumper had to be homemade. “Blast,” he muttered as he turned on his heel, heading towards The Village Haberdashery. At least now he had an excuse to stock up on some yarn.

15th of December

“Canada! Bro! You need to teach me how to knit!” Alfred demanded, bursting into his brother’s log cabin with terrifying velocity. Mathew had been enjoying a warm hot chocolate whilst being snuggled on the sofa in front of an open fire. He was wrapped in his favourite red & black plaid blanket with Kumajiro curled up on his lap.

“Maple!” Mathew screamed, thrusting his mug towards the intruder. The steaming hot chocolate doused Alfred, who squealed as the scolding liquid making contact with his skin.

“Fuck, Matt! You are so paying for my dry cleaning-” Alfred shouted as he started to peel off his sodden bomber jacket and pants.

“Oh Al, it’s just you,” Mathew gasped in relief. “You really should knock, eh?” the Canadian giggled as he watched his brother struggle out of his trousers.

“Not funny!” the American whined. He now stood awkwardly in his U.S. flag boxers and Captain America vest, hugging himself for warmth now that his extra layer was scattered all over the floor.

“Alfred, if you’re cold then you’re welcome to sit in front of the fire. What is it you wanted?” Mathew asked.

Alfred stalked towards the fireplace, snatched Mathew’s blanket from him –earning a growl from Kumajiro – and wrapped it around his own shoulders. Mathew sighed.

“I need you to teach me how to knit,” Alfred muttered grumpily as he sat himself down cross-legged on the rug, his back to the fire.

“I’m guessing this is for the Christmas contest… didn’t Arthur teach you how when you were little? He taught me…” Mathew gestured to the half-finished jumper that rested on a stall beside the couch. Balls of red, white and black yarn leaned at the stall’s base.

“No he did not, and even if he did, why should I remember anything that damn limey has to say?” Alfred replied heatedly.

Mathew chuckled at this. “True, you have done a pretty bad job at remembering his language, his bad taste in food…”

“Wow, that was a low-blow dude,” Alfred responded, burying his face in the plaid blanket in an attempt to hide the redness that was rising in his cheeks. Seeing his brother so self-conscious on the subject of their former guardian made Mathew feel a little sorry for him. Only a little, though.

“Sorry, Al. Of course I’ll teach you,” he reached out from his position on the couch and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

Alfred’s face lifted from the blanket, lit up brighter than the fifty stars that decorated his underwear. “Really? Thanks man! This is gonna be awe-sooome!” the American hollered, proceeding to pump his fists in the air repeatedly.

I little voice from the back of the Canadian’s mind knew already that this was a bad idea.

17th of December

Much to Wy’s displeasure, she had (once again) been lumped together with two other micro nations: Ladonia and KugelMugel. Ladonia had insisted that they work on their jumpers together, as apparently they were the ‘Artistic Nation Trio’. Moreover, he had insisted that the meeting be held at KugelMugel’s weird sphere house, as it was too cold to work at his place as it was outside. Now all three of them sat cross-legged on the floor of the strange building; surrounded by scattered yarn, needles and paint.

“Don’t ya think this is fun?” Ladonia asked cheerfully, tongue squeezed between his lips as he concentrated on loop stitching.

“It’s alright, I guess. Rather be painting though,” replied Wy. They waited for KugelMugel to answer too, however they were not surprised or offended when he didn’t. The Austrian micro nation was focussed so intensely on his knitting that Wy was certain she could see a vain protruding from under his red beret.

Ladonia leaned over to see Kugel’s fine work, before peering down at his own clumsy creation. He was much more accustomed to making sculptures. “Hey, Kugel – what do you think of Christmas?” he inquired.

KugelMugel seemed to exit his trance, blinking rapidly. “Christmas... Christmas is…” he hesitated.

Wy and Ladonia leaned towards him curiously.

Kugel’s head suddenly snapped up. “ART!” he squawked, grabbing Ladonia’s unfinished jumper from him and getting to work on it at high-speed.

“Hey! No, stop! I have to make it!” cried Ladonia, who attempted to tear his jumper back from the other boys grasp.

“You lot are worse than a couple of bities!” Wy yelled.

18th of December

Vietnam was relaxing on a narrow strip of sand on a small island in Ha Long Bay. She sat quietly, watching the Indochina Junk cruisers gently float across the water. One small fishing boat caught her eye as it sailed closer and closer to the shore where she was sat.

“Hey there, Vietnam!” Thailand called from the fishing boat, waving his hands frantically in the air.

Vietnam jolted from her seat in surprise. “What are you doing here, Thailand?” she demanded.

“I have something for you!” he replied, steering the boat ever closer to the shore. He arrived after a few minutes, stepping gracefully from the below deck and onto the sand not far from where Vietnam was still sitting. She could see that he had one hand behind his back as he walked exuberantly towards her.

“What do you have there?” she asked in a weary tone.

“Here,” he brought his hidden hand out from behind his back. In his grasp was a flat, square parcel. “Don’t open it until the 25th…” he said, holding the gift out to her.

“You got this… for me?” she uttered quietly, taking the gift in between her own two hands.

“Of course – we are friends after all!” Thailand assured. “I have to go now, I must feed Toto,” with that, the nation waved Vietnam farewell and jogged back to the fishing boat. She watched him go, still a little dumbfounded, squeezing the present to her chest. She smiled.

19th of December

Ukraine ducked down and removed the lid of her garden cloche, reaching her hand inside and tugging at the carrots that grew in the soil. She had other things rather than gardening on her mind however.

“How am I supposed to make a Christmas jumper when I can’t afford to buy any knitting needles? I only have sewing needles…” she prattled mournfully to herself. She heard the sound of her garden door being scraped open, so she turned to meet the visitor. “Ah, hello Bela,” she greeted, her tone still woeful.

“Why are you making such an annoying whiny voice, sister?” Belarus asked irritably. Katyusha ran to her sister – still holding the carrots – and pulled her into a bear hug.

“Oh Natalya!” Katyusha bawled. “I don’t have any money to make my jumper! What will I do?” she continued to squeeze Natalya, crying into her platinum blonde hair. The Belarusian groaned.

“I will make you a jumper, but only if you stop this unnecessary whinging,” Natalya growled, her voice muffled by her sister’s ginormous breasts. Said sister now pulled away, but still held onto Natalya’s arms.

“You would that for me? Katyusha sniffled. Belarus looked down at the carrots in her sister’s hands.

“…Yes. I’ll use these…” Natalya took the carrots from her sister and turned to leave the garden.

Katyusha was perplexed. “I don’t think she understands the concept of knitting…” she whispered to herself.

20th of December

“Eduard has been gone for a while, huh?” Lithuania noted to Poland. The two had been invited to Latvia’s house, and were walking up to the front door of his home. With Eduard still missing, Raivis was paranoid that a certain Russian was going to claim him as a Christmas gift to mother Russia. Toris and Feliks rang the doorbell, which in turn exerted the tune of ‘God, Bless Latvia!’ They listened to the clinking sounds of several latches and padlocks being unbolted, before Raivis finally opened the door a crack.

Feliks waved. “Yo Raivis, what’s the haps-” the Pole’s greeting was cut short as the little Baltic nation yanked them into his home by their collars, slamming the door immediately behind them and redoing the locks rapidly.

“So not cool man! I totally have whiplash now,” Feliks exclaimed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I-I’m sorry,” Raivis whimpered as he finished the last deadbolt. “But Ivan has already broken in once this week, making these insane demands…” Raivis turned to them now, bashful and fiddling with his hands. “I need your help with something,” he said.

“What is it?” Toris urged him.

“I, uh… please don’t laugh at me,” he begged, then started towards the stairs. “It’s just that, I…”

Toris and Feliks followed him up the steps, Toris giving Feliks a bemused look and the Pole shrugging in response. They reached the second floor hall where Raivis was standing directly underneath a door on the ceiling, pointing up at it.

“I…I can’t reach the loft!” the smaller nation finally admitted.

“Is… that it?” Feliks asked sceptically. “There’s no need to be so, like, dramatic.”

Raivis nodded frantically. Toris and Feliks glanced at each other and then looked back to the door of the loft.

The Lithuanian stepped up. “It looks like somebody will have to sit on my shoulders…”

Feliks’ pea green eyes sparkled. “I’ll do it Liet! I can-”

“NO – you’re wearing a skirt. I don’t need that kind of trauma so close to Christmas,” Toris asserted. Feliks scowled, crossed his arms and stuck his out his bottom lip.

Toris sighed and crouched down. “Come on, Raivis,” he motioned to his shoulders. Little Latvia climbed easily onto the Lithuanian, who then gently stood up whilst holding Raivis’ shins.

“Don’t you dare push me,” Toris warned Feliks.

“What? I’m just standing here, totally minding my own business…” the Pole teased sarcastically.

Ignoring him, Toris stretched a little higher so Raivis could pull the handle of the loft door.

“So Raivis, did you, like, try standing on a chair to reach the door before we arrived? How come you still couldn’t reach it?” Feliks asked distractedly.

The Latvian struggled with the door. “Yes, but I still wasn’t tall enough to pull the ladder down…” he divulged, voice rife with embarrassment. The attic door then swung open, casting a rain of dust particles onto the two nations – Poland quickly sidestepped away, conscious of getting his adorable skirt dirty.

“Can you reach the ladder?” Toris choked through the cloud.

Raivis cast his arms blindly around the entrance of the loft. “Almost – here, got it!” he exclaimed triumphantly. He yanked the loft ladder down harshly, making a thump as it landed on the carpeted hallway. He stepped down from Toris’ shoulders and swiftly climbed the ladder.

Toris brushed the dust from his brunette hair. “What exactly did you want from the loft anyway…?” he asked.

“Oh, just something Mr Russia want- I mean, uh, never mind!” he called from deep within the attic.

21st of December

Greece was resting on a stone bench that overlooked the ruins of his mother’s city. The weather had gotten considerably colder; however he was swathed in a thick blanket of ten-or-so stray cats. He exhaled a content sigh.

“…I feel as if I am forgetting something…” he murmured absentmindedly to himself. “Hmm…” He casually reached for his trouser pocket, tugging at his mobile phone. He softly pressed several keys and called.

“Moshimoshi. Is that you, Heracles-san?” asked the ever-alert Japan from the other end of the receiver.

“Hey, Kiku… I just wanted to ask you something. I feel like I have forgotten something very important…” Greece’s airy voice floated into the mobile.

“Have you ventured to create your Christmas jumper yet, Heracles-san?” Japan asked worriedly. Greece deliberated this.

“…no.” Heracles finally answered.

“Would you like me to help you with it?” offered Kiku.

“Japan… helping Greece… yes, that sounds nice. Don’t tell Turkey though…”

“Just leave it to me.” assured Japan. “Sayonara.”

22nd of December

“Yo, Egypt!” Turkey hollered from the base of the Great Pyramid of Giza. “What the holy hell do you think you’re doing up there?”

Gupta sat cross-legged on the very tip of the pyramid. He glanced over the side to peer at the tiny speck in the sand that was Sadik.

Said Turk now cupped his mouth with his hands. “Hellooo! Can you hear me, Gupta? What are you doing?” he hollered.

“…knitting.”

23rd of December

Switzerland was bushed. He was bushed at the end of every day, as one would be if they patrolled their boarders 24/7 like he did. He trudged down the hall, his bedroom the destination. When he did eventually reach out to grab the door knob, he froze. There was a rustling sound coming from inside, followed by quick, light footsteps. Still in his military uniform, Vash pulled the strap of his rifle over his shoulder and held the gun firmly in his hands, pointing forward.

“Get off of my property!” he yelled, charging through the bedroom door gun-first. The door snapped back, revealing a very small and very alarmed Liechtenstein standing in the centre of the room. Her arms were raised above her head in surrender and her turquoise eyes were ample with terror.

“B-big b-brother,” she managed to stammer. Vash sighed with relief and cast the gun to the ground.

“Oh Lili, it’s just you! What are you doing in here? I thought you were one of those damn EU countries,” He advanced towards her and placed a comforting hand on her narrow shoulder.

“I-I know, I was - I was just giving you a gift, it’s on the bed there,” she responded, still shaken.

Vash scanned the bed, but before he could go and retrieve the gift, Lili grabbed his wrist with her own tiny hand.

“But you can’t open it until Christmas day! It’s something special for you to wear at the party…” she urged. “I hope you like it!” at this, she let go of her brother’s wrist, ducked her head and walked hastily from the room.

24th of December

“… Yes, he has been bugging me about it for fourteen days.” Sweden said into the telephone. He was sitting on his living room couch, watching Sealand. The micro nation had his back to the Swede as he sat cross-legged on the floor, passive aggressively watching Frozen. Peter had been trying for forteen days to knit a jumper, however he always ended up hurting himself. Hanatamago had gotten caught up in all of the yarn, and one time Peter somehow managed to knit a sock rather than a sweater. Yet still the micro nation would not accept help from Berwald or Tino - “The rules said that it had to be homemade by ourselves!” he had insisted.

“I can get you one from my place and give it to him on the day,” Norway offered from the other end of the telephone.

“Sure. That should be fine,” Berwald accepted.

“How do you know that he’s going to like it?” Lukas asked. The Swede glanced at the television. The movie had gotten up to the part where Olaf gets impaled, which made Peter break out into a fit of giggles despite his foul mood.

“He’ll like it,” Berwald quietly reassured him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the chaos begin!

25th December – 9pm

Arthur arrived at the Nordic house alone. Scotland had tried to hitch a ride - attaching a hook and rope to the bumper of Arthur’s mini cooper as he headed for Heathrow airport no less, proceeding to skate down the road like a water-skier - but the Brit had shaken him off. Arthur walked up the pathway now, sporting a bottle green jumper. The phrase ‘Merry F*cking Christmas’ was stitched neatly across his chest in pillar-box red yarn - at first he had wondered if his creation was too distasteful, but then he thought _“Fuck it,”_ and threw it on over his white button down shirt.

A steady flurry of snow had begun to fall by the time Arthur exited his car. Upon turning towards the Nord’s household his face became a picture of astonishment. The wide pathway leading to the entrance of the house was lined with pale white trees, each with rows of golden fairy lights suspended from them, dipping from branch to branch. There were beautifully crafted wire reindeer, each one pointing to the direction of the entrance with their noses. To top it all off, a wide, sparkling red sleigh was parked just outside of the garage for all too see. It was three times longer than his mini cooper, with a sharp, steel runner that had been lovingly polished to a gleam. Eight wire reindeer were harnessed to the front of the sleigh in two rows of four, standing proud. Arthur strolled down the path towards it with childish glee. Upon reaching the sleigh he placed his hand atop it, feeling the smooth polished wood.

“Welcome, Arthur! I’m glad you could make it,” Tino called from the entrance, just behind the Englishman. The Finn was dressed up in a pair of red slacks that were tucked into thick black boots. With his traditional white-trimmed red Santa coat open, Arthur saw that he had a matching red sweater with the words “Santa, baby” knitted in white. Last but not least, an oversized Santa hat sat at an angle on the nation’s pale hair. Arthur greeted him with a gentlemanly handshake.

“Your jumper is very cool, in fact it reminds me of a metal song I have on my ipod…” Tino mentioned thoughtfully.

“Why thank you,” Arthur returned. “You’re in quite the getup yourself.”

“Well, I have just got back from delivering everybody’s gifts!” the Finn admitted. “I see you’re admiring the sleigh,” he continued.

“Ah, yes – she’s a beauty…” Arthur replied fondly: he remembered saying the exact same thing about his own ship, back when he used to terrorise the seven seas and rule the world. He was more than a little envious of Tino. “I do have one query though: Where do you get the real reindeer from?” Arthur asked curiously.

The Finn leaned towards him. “You see those wire reindeer?” he whispered, “Lukas uses his magic to turn them into real sleigh-pullers!”

Arthur’s emerald eyes widened. “That’s astonishing…” he gasped.

“Yo, Arthur! Look who made it!” cried a familiarly loud and obnoxious voice from somewhere up the path. The Brit’s back stiffened as he braced himself.

“Greetings Alfred!” welcomed Tino.

“Wassup, Tino? Your place is decked! And your outfit is awesome, dude!” the American replied.

“Thanks! Yours is… it’s…” Tino was struggling with a compliment, and now Arthur turned from the sleigh to see why.

The jumper that Alfred F. Jones had made was a monstrosity. Multi-coloured fairy lights had been stitched messily into the chest of the jumper with deep blue yarn. A collection of wonky white stars sat sadly on his stomach, and a circle of red tinsel curled around the base of the jumper. Oh, and it had wings: they were a metre wide, knitted in blue and with a random assortment of Christmas tree decorations dangling from them.

“Nice jumper Artie; What’cha make it from, eyebrow hair?” Alfred guffawed. Arthur was still too stunned by the state of the boy’s sweater to even acknowledge the insult. “Dude, seriously, what’s wrong with you?” the American asked.

“What… how… Alfred, are those wings on your back?” the Brit faltered.

“Oh yeah, these babies? Made ‘em myself,” replied Alfred proudly, placing a hand on his hip and flipping his amber hair.

“I don’t doubt that…” Arthur said meekly. The Englishman gave Tino a _‘I swear I didn’t raise him to be this way’_ look.

“Anyway guys, why don’t we head inside already? I’m freezing my jingle bells off out here!” the American exclaimed as he headed for the glass porch.

* * *

 

 Alfred was blown away by the interior of the Nordic house. Upon entering he stepped into a wide hallway, and at the end of it he could see that it opened up into a huge room with an enormous Christmas tree on display, at least ten metres high. He impatiently waited to be greeted by Berwald, Mathias, Lukas, Emil and Peter, all the time just wanting to run up the hall and inspect the tree. They took his coat and hung it on the many hooks that lined the entrance. Lukas’s staff – an object he sometimes used to amplify his magic - leant ominously in the corner. The group of northern countries were taken aback when they caught sight of his sweet jumper, which made Alfred puff up like a proud papa bird.

“Woah!” Peter gaped at him. “Your jumper is so cool!”

“Thanks little man! Omg – is that a Frozen sweater?” Alfred asked eagerly as he poked the micro nation’s jumper - a pale blue sweater with Olaf the snowman on it.

“Yeah!” Peter beamed. “Lukas and Berwald got it for me!”

“Sweet, dude!” the American replied just as enthusiastically. He surveyed the rest of the jumpers: Emil’s was blue-black, with flowing green lines that represented the northern lights; Mr Puffin was perched on his shoulder in a matching mini-sweater. Lukas had Elsa from frozen on his, his deadpan eyes daring Alfred to question it. Berwald’s had the letter ‘L’ with a red circle backslash over it, which Alfred didn’t really get. Mathias’s was red and had a weird goat thing on it.

“Dude, what _is_ that? Alfred asked the Dane.

“It’s a Julbock,” Mathias grinned.

“Yeah, I don’t know what that is.” Alfred admitted. “Berwald, I don’t really get your jumper either, man.”

“No L.” Was all that slipped from the Swede’s mouth. Alfred examined the jumper for an embarrassingly long time before he got it.

“Oh I totally get it! NO-EL! Hahahaha,” howled the American.

“I actually wore it to keep Ladonia away.” Berwald confessed.

“Oh,” Alfred replied, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes.

Arthur and Tino had finally came through the door.

“Mathias, would you kindly lead our guests into the main room? There are still people who need to be greeted,” Tino asked the Dane.

“Sure thing, boss!” he saluted, escorting Arthur and Alfred down the vast hallway. “After Finny’s little intimidation at the meeting, a lot of people actually turned up early so they wouldn’t offend him,” whispered Mathias.

“I’ll have to keep that technique in mind,” Arthur remarked.

The three men entered the main room. It was high and round, with scattered groups of nations chatting idly: Bulgaria was munching on some yoghurt with Romania; the micro nations were inevitably grouped together; Hungary, Ukraine and Liechtenstein were comparing outfits. A sound system sat to the left, ready for when the party started to pick up. The room’s centre piece was a colossal fir tree, wrapped in beads, tinsel and white fairy lights. Each bauble had been hand-painted to have a flag on it (Arthur noticed his and Alfred’s were hung close to the top), and a coating of fake snow crowned the very top of it. A large gold star sat fat and proud on the tip.

“This…is… AWESOME!” Alfred squealed, and before Arthur could pull him back he was jumping around the tree, examining every decoration with childish awe and climbing under it to check if there were any presents there. Arthur face-palmed.

“Mathias, could you tell me where the drinks are?” Arthur blanched. This was going to be a long night.

“Remember buddy, there’s no alcohol here” – the Englishman wilted – “but we do have a lot of fruit punch,” informed Mathias. “It’s in that room there,” the Dane pointed at a door back in the hallway.

“Thanks,” Arthur replied, exiting the room with haste as to not be seen with that idiot Alfred.

The Brit moved to exit the room, only to be confronted by his least favourite Frenchman. With revulsion Arthur noticed the jumper that Frances was adorned in: It was the richest shade of navy blue, decorated with sweet, little white snowflake patterns… and with an intricate knitting of three – not two, but three - reindeer _copulating_ in the centre. Before Arthur could chastise him for being so vulgar, he was noticed by the other nation.

“Ah, look what the cat dragged in,” Francis chimed. His azure eyes became critical as he read the phrase on Arthur’s jumper. “As usual, mon cher you lack any speck of finesse. It pains me, it truly does.” He continued grimly. Then, to Arthur’s horror, the Frenchman began advancing towards him. “Let us take this ungodly fashion atrocity off, shall we?”

“We shall not!” Arthur managed to cry just as Francis had reached him, now curling his fingers around the edge of the Englishman’s sweater.

“Ohonhon, Angleterre you are so easy to tease! Your cheeks turn such a fierce shade of rouge so quickly,” exclaimed Francis as he ceased trying to remove the Englishman’s clothes, instead opting to put an arm around the other nation’s shoulders.

“I hope that’s a carrot in your pocket, you dirty prick.” Arthur retorted, viciously trying to wriggle free of the Frenchman’s grasp. Frances simply tightened his grip.

“Now, now, we must be friendly at these big social events. We wouldn’t want to cause any upset now, would we-” Francis’ soliloquy was cut short as Arthur suddenly shot free from his clasp. The potent smell of strong cheese and fruity wine had just been too much for the Englishman to handle. Arthur brushed his clothes down with his hands and stood defiantly across from Francis.

“That jumper is hardly appropriate.” England finally commented through gritted teeth.

“You think? Well then, I can always change it!” At this, Pierre – from seemingly out of nowhere - ripped open the Frenchman’s crude sweater with a single white swoop, revealing another jumper underneath.

England’s thick eyebrows raised. “Oh dear God,”

Francis’ new sweater had the pattern of an innocent-enough snowman on it, however there was one unmistakable aspect in the snowman’s vital region. So it was a carrot after all.

“French Republic, you disgust me.” growled the Brit.

“As do you, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. By the way, where are your brothers, Angleterre? Will they not be joining us on this wonderful evening? I would very much like to watch them each individually smash there demands of indépendence into your silly little face.” taunted Francis.

Arthur merely pointed his index finger at the word ‘Fuck’ that was on his jumper, and then jabbed it back at him.

“In your dreams, ma chérie” the Frenchman chuckled.

* * *

 

Now that Francis had successfully scared away that grouch Arthur, he turned to find Antonio and Gilbert trying to sneak up on him, probably to yank his trousers down.

“Ah, mes amis – you made it!” he cheered, pacing towards them and casting an arm around each of them.

“We wouldn’t miss it for the world, amigo!” assured Antonio.

“Wir are the world, man!” the Prussian chortled.

“You were,” corrected Francis.

“Ugh, don’t remind me!” Gilbert chastised playfully.

Francis now stepped back to inspect his friends’ jumpers. Antonio had a headband with a spring of mistletoe sprouting from it, and a black jumper that said “Kiss Me” in red and white candy cane stripes. Francis nodded to him in approval. Gilbert however, was a mess. His jumper was white with a stocking somehow stitched onto the centre, surrounded by dangling beer cans. One of the cans had a candy cane sitting in it; another had Gilbird peeking out of it.

Francis cringed. “Mon ami, I have no words.”

“Kesese… what can I say? I was drunk,” Gilbert confessed with a shrug.

“Well, I should have expected worse,” said Francis. “You are forgiven.”

Gilbert grinned and pulled the three of them back into their hug. “Anyway, we have more pressing matters,” he whispered into their ears. “The booze.”

“Hmm, that is a problem,” Antonio said thoughtfully, stroking his chin.

“Now, now gentlemen, we are guests in this house. If we were to go against Finny’s rules I fear we may meet a terrible fate,” Francis shushed, then glanced at Gilbert. “Also, I don’t think you could survive another hit.” The Frenchman said, his voice tinged with concern.

“Ah, don’t worry about me, Fran! I am the awesome Prussia, remember?” he assured arrogantly. Antonio and Francis didn’t look convinced. “Anyhow, I gotta go take a piss,” the Prussian stated, unwrapping his arms from the Frenchman and the Spaniard.

“Would you like me to help you with that?” Francis leered playfully. Gilbert was one of the few people who took Francis’ perversion as a joke/compliment.

“You wish!” Gilbert winked and then bounded from the room. He could hear Antonio and Francis cheering “Ayyyyyyyye,” at his response. When he entered the hallway however, he did not head towards the bathrooms. Instead, he weaved his way towards the catering room. Finland’s justification for having all of the food and drinks in the same room was to minimalize the risk of people making a mess throughout his home. _“Smart guy,”_ Gilbert thought to himself. Upon arriving in the room, he made an effort to appear casual as he walked towards the back table – a back table lined with ten different varieties of fruit punch. The sight made Gilbert feel faint. He scanned the table and decided to head towards the first bowl at the far end. Arriving at it, he picked up the ladle and pretended to pour himself a drink, whilst reaching his other hand around to the back of his jeans. From the waistband he removed a small, round bottle of absinthe. He discreetly turned the lid, flicking his eyes about the surrounding area to make sure nobody had seen him. The lid was off, and he now tilted his hand so that the bottle was hovering above the punch bowl. He smiled wickedly. “Kesesesese…”

“What are you doing?” an airy voice whispered from beside the punch bowl. Gilbert screamed.

“Jesus Christ! You scared the Scheiße outta me!” the former nation barked, scanning the table to find who the voice had come from.

“S-sorry…” Canada apologised sheepishly as he slowly faded into view. He was perched on the edge of the table, his legs oscillating gently as he sat between two punch bowls. Kumajiro was sat upon his lap, pawing at the Canadian’s knees. He was clad in an off-white sweater with the words ‘Toronto Maple Leafs’ knitted in red.

“Please don’t tell West,” appealed the former nation, hand still suspended in the air.

Mathew looked away from him for a moment to rustle in the pocket of his own jeans. He held out his hand. “Don’t tell Francis,” The Canadian ordered, handing the Prussian a bottle similar to his own. Gilbert read the label and gasped.

“Maple-flavoured Everclear? Man, this is some insane… wait, were you going to drink this?” Gilbert asked in astonishment.

Mathew shrugged. “Maybe.”

Gilbert reflected this for a moment. “Whoa, hold up. There was one time at this party – I think it was 1969 – and somebody spiked the punch with something böse, and I got the blame for it, but it wasn’t me… was that you?”

“…maybe.”

Gilbert raised his palm in the air. “Up-high,” he offered. Mathew returned the high five modestly, a gentle but knowing smile on his sweet face. With a nod, Gilbert poured in the Everclear. Mathew took the Absinthe bottle from the Prussian and tilted that into the punch bowl on the other side of where he sat.

“Major respect, man,” Gilbert complimented. “You, me and West have gotta go drinking together sometime. I reckon this old man can still hold his own against a young one like you.” he winked.

“Why, aren’t you up to it now?” Mathew inclined innocently. He took a wine glass from beside the punch bowl and dipped it into the Everclear-tainted bowl. He took a sniff, and swigged. Mathew’s entire body shuddered slightly as the alcohol burned into his system, then turned back to Gilbert, a little starry-eyed.

“I know a challenge when I see one, boy! Just wait until you witness the awesome might of Prussia! West~” Gilbert coaxed to his brother, who was standing with Feliciano and Lovino at the other end of the room.

10pm

“Ah Latvia, I see you wore that sweet outfit I asked you to wear,” Ivan complimented on the little nation’s 1937 parade outfit, complete with a tall hat and turned up elf shoes.

“N-no problem, Mr Russia,” Raivis replied meekly, gently sipping his fruit punch.

“And Estonia, what are those on your jumper?” enquired the Russian.

Eduard’s sweater was made entirely out of mochi. Thanks to Ivan kidnapping him, the Estonian hadn’t had time to knit his own jumper. America Mochi had suggested that he and the other mochi could morph to create one for him. He said, “O-oh these? These are just some mochi I had at home. They work great as thermals-”

“Oh, look! It’s China! Dobro pozhalovat’, Yao!” Ivan called to the Chinese man across the room. Yao looked up from his conversation with Hong Kong (who was wearing a jumper that said _‘Made in China’_ on it) and caught sight of the Russian. He excused himself from Leon and walked wearily towards Ivan.

“Why are you wearing a red snuggie my friend?” inquired Ivan.

“I am too old for this nonsense,” Yao answered evasively, crossing his arms.

“You did not answer my question,” Ivan impelled in a sing-song voice.

Yao glared. “…it is comfortable.” he admitted. “That is not important! Why you dress like that?” he demanded, pointing to Ivan’s knitted onesie. Ivan looked like he had the body of a nutcracker, as the neck of the soldier lined up with the nation’s own. He was also sporting a bushy black moustache and a tall, black kepi hat. “Did you make that all by yourself?” Yao questioned in disbelief.

“It is the Nutcracker, da? Estonia helped me make it!” Ivan radiated.

Yao sighed and rubbed his forehead. “This would be so much easier if I could just drink some Baijiu, but no, not appropriate! Damn white people.”

“Why don’t you try some punch?” Ivan offered cheerfully. “I will go fetch you some, da?”

Before Yao could decline, the Russian had already dashed from the room.

Ivan wondered over to the catering room and headed straight for the back table, only to get distracted by a group of drunken people at the other end of it – Ludwig, Feliciano, Romano, Mathew and Gilbert. Ludwig sat on the floor with Feliciano on his lap, both sipping fruit punch and giggling to each other. The Italian was wearing a skilfully knitted jumper with Neko-Italy in a Santa hat on it, while the German’s had the pun ‘Reinbeer’ underneath an image of a reindeer holding a pint in its hoof. Lovino stood close by - his jumper exhibited an image of Grumpy Cat, also in a Santa hat, with the slogan _‘Dashing through the no’_ outlined on it. Mathew sat directly opposite Gilbert, separated by a row of shot glasses, most of them empty. Curious to see where they got their alcohol from, the Russian marched towards them.

“…And then that idiota peed on the oven to put the fire out!” Romano roared with laughter, slapping his hand onto Ludwig’s back forcefully.

“Oh Feli, you didn’t,” Ludwig said sympathetically.

“Ah~ Romano, don’t *hic*, tell everybod- *hic*” Feliciano whined.

“Hello comrades,” Ivan greeted. “May I get to that punch bowl?”

“Oh look, it’s Russia,” Gilbert stated, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his arm around Mathew’s shoulder. Then he passed out.

“Looks like *hic* I win, old man,” Mathew noted with a happy grin on his face. Kumajiro was nowhere to be found. He got up unsteadily from his place on the floor, prompting the rest of the intoxicated group to also shuffle aside for the Russian. Ivan got to the bowl and knelt down to sniff it.

“As I thought,” Ivan remarked. The contents of the bowl was almost empty, however the Russian’s nose could not be fooled.

“Oooooh nooooo, looks like we’ve run outta booze…” Lovino cried melodramatically.

“Ne ayez crainte, le Canada est- ahem, sorry” Mathew composed himself. “Never fear, Canada is here!” he laughed heartily, raising another eight bottles of Everclear in his hands. This earned a respective “Woo!” from his little gang of alcoholics.

Ivan swiped the bottles from the Canadian, which got him a disheartened “aw,” from the group. However, he then proceeded to skip from punch bowl to punch bowl, swiftly dispensing equal amounts of the alcohol in each. They cheered again. Now at the other end of the table, Ivan poured himself a glass of punch and dashed a bit of vodka in it from his own flask. He then filled up glasses for Yao, Raivis and Eduard. As he walked from the catering room he bumped into Alfred.

“Russia dude, what’re you doing with all those drinks? Save some for the rest of us!” he said, then snatched two of the glasses from Ivan’s arms and glugged them down. “Woo-hoo!” he reeled. “This isn’t punch! Whatcha’ put in there, man?”

Ivan smiled darkly down at the younger nation. “You don’t want to know.”

11pm

“Gilbert has been gone a long time, don’t you think?” Antonio mentioned to Francis. The Frenchman was attending to Monaco (Who wore a pink sweater with hearts, diamonds, spades and clubs knitted in white yarn) and Seychelles (She wore a long flowing skirt, with a baby blue jumper that had a dolphin in a Santa hat on it). He was speaking to the two girls quickly and quietly in French, and Antonio could only catch snatches of their conversation.

“I am also concerned about Mathieu – the girls say they have not seen him, and neither have I. I hope he came at all… the boy doesn’t socialise enough as it is,” Francis replied, his brow knitted with maternal worry.

“I haven’t seen Lovino at all either, or Feliciano for that matter,” Antonio pouted.

“Something is not right here…” the Frenchman whirled around thoughtfully, monitoring the atmosphere of the nations around him. Roderich – whose jumper had the sheet music for ‘Silent Night’ knitted into it - was sipping his punch with a relaxed smile on his face. Belgium and Netherlands (who were wearing matching “Merry Christmas, brother” and “Merry Christmas, Sister” jumpers) were giggling in the corner. Cuba was stumbling down the hallway in his floral jumper.

“Say, Antonio – have you tried the punch yet?” Francis enquired seriously.

“No, I didn’t really want any. Why you ask amigo?”

“…these personnes are drunk,” he stated flatly.

“How can you be sure? Fin was very clear that no alcohol-”

“Somebody broke the rules,” Francis interrupted.

“When he realises who did it… well, I feel sorry for whoever’s on Tino’s shit-list,” Antonio responded, shrinking a little in fear.

Francis stepped away from the conversation. “Wait one moment, I must go speak with Natalya” He ushered his way through the surrounding nations politely and caught Belarus walking towards Hungary and her gang. He tapped her arm gently.

Natalya hissed. “Get away from me, cheese-breath! Ivan is the only man for-”

“This is not a pick-up attempt; I am not suicidal after all,” the Frenchman assured her. She was wearing a black jumper similar to Antonio’s with the words ‘Kiss Me’ on it, which took Francis by surprise. Natalya glared at him viciously and then glanced down at his crotch and squinted. Francis suddenly felt extremely self-conscious. “Eh- speaking of Ivan, you haven’t seen him around here have you?” he queried in a small voice.

“He is in the catering room. I warn you – if you screw with brother, I will tear your penis off,” she snarled, her accent thickening. She turned immediately to walk away, and to the Frenchman’s horror she had a remarkably detailed image of Ivan’s face knitted onto the back of her sweater.

“Mon Dieu…” Francis whispered fearfully.

There was a sudden scream from another area of the house, followed by frantic yelling and then the smashing of glass. Everyone in the room – including Francis and Natalya – swivelled in alarm towards the direction of whoever was breaching the peace.

Meanwhile

“Your jumper is terrible,” Sadik noted to Gupta as he sipped a glass of punch. The Egyptian’s sweater had the pun ‘Sandy Claus’ knitted neatly into it.

Gupta glared at him from the corner of his eye. “Yours isn’t that much better,” he replied calmly. The Turk had simply stitched ‘Noel Baba’ onto his.

“At least it doesn’t look like a pee-stain like his,” Sadik nodded to Cyprus.

“Hey! This is an image of Jesus, what’s so wrong with it?” the Cypriot exclaimed indignantly.

“You made him in a block of yellow yarn! Now he looks like a pee stain,” Sadik explained with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Why do I always get this skatá?” Cyprus grumbled.

Meanwhile

“Ah Peter, you finally made it!” Seborga greeted in the main room.

“Yeah, Swe finally let me off coat-duty,” the boy explained. He then read the Italian man’s jumper – _‘When I see you I touch my elf’_ , it said. “I didn’t know you had an elf, Seb?” Peter inquired naively.

“O-oh, I, err, yes, of course…”answered Seborga vaguely. “A-anyway, why don’t you say hi to everybody else, si?” he pointed to the assembly of micro nations in the centre of the room.

Peter zealously ran towards them, waving goodbye to Seborgia for now (the Italian was on a mission to chat up some pretty ladies). The boy spotted Wy immediately thanks to her bright red jumper, and as he approached her he saw that it had Santa riding a sleigh skilfully woven into it. Only, it wasn’t reindeer that pulled him, but white kangaroos. Ladonia was jabbering into her ear about something ( _“probably talking about Pokémon”,_ Peter reckoned), and his sweater had _‘90’s Kid’_ stitched onto in bold red and green. KugelMugel stood quietly beside them, doodling something onto his hand with a biro. The jumper he wore was violet, and unsurprisingly it said _‘Christmas is ART’_. Being the older members of the group, Hutt River – who wore an extravagant purple cape that was decorated in tinsel -and Molossia – his white blazer hung across his shoulders, obscuring the view of his sweater – were passing the time with idle chatter.

“You all made it!” Peter cried with joy, his mouth pulled into a wide grin.

“What took you so long?” Wy huffed, hands on hips.

“Sorry!” he faltered. “Hey Lado, hey Kugel. Hey Hutt, hey Molly.”

“Don’t call me that you little shit!” Molossia raged at him.

“What’s on your jumper?” Peter asked before swiping the blazer from his shoulders. The jumper revealed to be a lovely shade of grass green, with little flower patterns knitted across it in rows.

Molossia’s face burst into a fiery shade of red. “You little bastard!”

“You made that, Molly? But it’s so cute!” Peter teased.

Hutt River intercepted the argument before Molossia could shoot anyone in the face. “I think we will be going now,” he chuckled nervously, tugging Molossia’s green sleeve. “Let’s go, yes?”

Molossia jabbed his finger at Peter, then drew it slowly across his own neck.

“See ya later, Molly!” Peter waved, ignoring the obvious threat. He then turned back to the others. “I bumped into Netherlands on the way over here. He gave me this bag,” Peter presented a small packet from his trouser pocket.

Ladonia peered at it. “What’s that brown stuff?” Peter shrugged.

KugelMugel stepped forward and tugged the little bag from Peter’s hand, sniffing it.

“What is it, Kugel?” Ladonia asked.

“… Austria sometimes cooks Frischkäse brownies with brown stuff,” he theorized quietly, fingering the bag.

Peter’s eyes sparkled. “That’s a great idea, Kugel! We’ll go make cake!”

Wy raised an eyebrow with scepticism. “Why would Ned give you ingredients for chocolate cake?”

“Maybe he got it from Belgium and didn’t know what to do with it?” Ladonia suggested.

Wy grunted, unconvinced. “Whatever.”

“Alright then – to the kitchen!” Peter was about to lead his friends out of the room when a piercing cry filled the entirety of the house.

Meanwhile

“Lili, what on Earth are you wearing?” Hungary squawked with her arms in the air. The microstate was in a short, sleeveless, black wool dress that had a white fluffy trim. Random white pompoms dotted its surface, and she wore a silver tinsel boa around her neck. On her feet were knee-high black leather boots.

Lili looked up at her with round, innocent eyes. “What’s wrong with it? I thought it was classy…”

“No, Lili - That’s kinky!” Elizabeta informed. “I can’t believe Vash let you come here in that.”

The little girl blushed. “I didn’t come here like this, I… got changed in the bathroom just now,” she admitted shamefully.

“Hoho, you’re turning into a rebellious teenager!” Katyusha laughed heartily. On the Ukrainian’s sweater were two snowmen, their faces on her breasts. They had real carrots as their noses, which protruded from Katyusha’s bosom.

Lili tried to appeal to them. “But you have candy canes on your breasticles! And Miss Katyusha looks like she has carrots as her nip-”

“That’s enough, Lili,” Vash interrupted from behind her. Lili suddenly went rigid with fear at the sound of her brother’s voice.

“B-big Brother, I-I…”

“There’s no need to keep secrets from me, Lili. You’re your own person and I have to respect that, even though I don’t agree with what you’re wearing…” – he acknowledged, looking her up and down awkwardly – “… at least it’s an improvement from copying me all of the time.”

Elizabeta crossed her arms. “That’s all well and good Vash, but why are you wearing that pink frilly jumper?” she smirked.

Vash scowled. “That’s none of your-”

“I made for big brother to wear today!” interjected Lili. Vash face-palmed.

“Hey, where did sister go?” Katyusha wondered.

“I think she went to find your brother,” replied Elizabeta as she scanned the room. Her eyes suddenly locked with Moldova’s, who looked small and out of place in the grand space. “Be right back!” the Hungarian announced before advancing towards the small boy.

“Are you lost, little one?” Elizabeta asked, kneeling down to be at eye-level with him.

“I can’t find my brother!” Moldova replied sadly. He was in a baggy, patch-work jumper that had the words “Merry Crãciun!” stitched sloppily on the front.

Elizabeta looked down sympathetically at the boy. “I’ll help you find him, but on one condition – you swap jumpers with me, ok?” she proposed.

“But… why would you want this?” Moldova asked confusedly, pinching the jumper. “Yours looks so expensive and pretty!”

It was true – Roderich had supplied Elizabeta with the finest wools, as a gift to her. “No reason,” she smiled.

“Whatever you say, lady,” shrugged the boy as he pulled the raggedy sweater over his head. Elizabeta followed suit. Once they had successfully transferred jumpers, the Hungarian stood up and took Moldova’s hand.

“Wow, this is the softest thing I’ve ever worn!” Moldova exclaimed with glee, stroking his sleeves affectionately. Elizabeta supressed the need to itch her entire upper body as the old scratchy material began to irritate her skin. Once again she examined the room, before finally finding Romania and Bulgaria in the far corner. However, an unexpected screech suddenly tore through the air from outside, followed by a group of people hollering and then the sound of shattering of glass. Everyone began filing out of the room to investigate the commotion, and Elizabeta looked down at Moldova with a concerned expression on her face.

“What’re we waiting for?” the boy grinned back up at her, exposing his sharp canines. “Let’s go see!”

A little before 11pm

Alfred felt good. He was here, with his friends, in this awesome sweater and he felt higher than a kite. He wondered if it had anything to do with whatever he had just drunk out of the two glasses that Ivan had been carrying. He decided to explore the Nordic’s lodgings, coming across a room that housed many of the South East Asian countries. Before entering, he doubled back to the catering room and filled up seven glasses of punch onto a tray: he was going to do an experiment.

“…thank you for the gift.” Alfred overheard Vietnam say as he eavesdropped from just outside of the room. He braced himself before entering, weary of the feelings she held against him. Surely she couldn’t hate him in this incredible jumper?

He nonchalantly wondered into the room.“Wassup peeps? Got a little bored in those other rooms, thought I’d take a look around, ya’ know?” he explained by way of a greeting.

Alfred saw that Vietnam was wearing a pale yellow sweater that had a smiley face on it. Thailand was also there, displaying his elephant and snowflake patterned jumper. Korea’s face lit up when he noticed America – unsurprisingly his jumper had the slogan _‘I invented Christmas’_ on it. Taiwan had a pink Hello Kitty Christmas sweater, and Japan’s had a beautifully crafted mix of pink cherry blossoms and snowflakes. Macau’s was black and white with a knitted suit and tie. Greece was also there beside Japan, wearing his own _‘Meowly Christmas’_ jumper.

“Greetings America-san. I see you have found our little corner,” Kiku welcomed politely.

“Haha, yeah. And I got yo’ guys some drinks!” Alfred passed around the glasses to each of them and waited eagerly for the effects to kick in. However, they weren’t drinking fast enough for Alfred.

“Kiku, it offends me how slow you are drinking that punch. Is it not good enough for you?” the American demanded intimidatingly.

Poor Kiku nearly choked on his sip. “N-No, I did not mean to offend! Please, I am sorry America-san” Kiku stammered hysterically, beginning to force large gulps down his throat.

“Mansea! You go Japan!” Yong Soo encouraged, downing his own glass. The remaining company in the room shrugged and followed suit. Now Alfred waited.

Meanwhile

Eduard had fled his spot in the main party room as soon as Ivan had left to get drinks. He left Yao and dragged Raivis with him over to where Toris and Feliks chatted idly. Toris’s deep-green jumper was very sweet, with rows of wheat and snowflake patterns in red and yellow. Feliks was in a hot pink sweater with a reindeer in a bow on it, and of course a skirt.

“Woah girl, what is up with your jumper?” Feliks grimaced when Eduard arrived. The Estonian hadn’t noticed that his white jumper was rippling and bubbling about his torso.

“Oh no…” Eduard whimpered fearfully, stepping away from his friends.

The mochi had awoken.


	3. Chapter 3

11pm

“Woo! Yeah! Drop it like it’s hot, Taiwan!” cheered Alfred. His experiment – to see the effect of alcohol on a room full of East Asian nations – had displayed exciting results. Yong Soo had produced a mini speaker from his back pocket, so now they were all dancing awfully to Gangnam Style. Hong Kong had accidentally roamed into the party at one point, but Alfred had filled his belly full of punch too, so now he was as wild as the rest of them. Macau suddenly had a fan in his hand and was twirling provocatively around Leon, who didn’t seem to mind at all. Heracles had fallen asleep with half of his body outside of the room.

Yong Soo was leading the disco, impossibly hyped. “I invented this dance!” he cried ecstatically.

“No you didn’t- *hic* oh wait, yes you did,” squeaked Kiku.

As they all sang “Eh, sexy lady”, Taiwan leered over Vietnam and gave her wink, causing Vietnam to fall into a fit of giggles on the floor. Thailand tucked his hands under her armpits in an attempt to pull her back up; however he also lost his footing and ended up piling on top of her. This prompted the rest of the room to pile on top of them.

Alfred lounged playfully at the very top of the human pile. “Hey, guys – is it just me or is it hot in here?” the American shouted over the music. His skin felt sizzling hot and very uncomfortable all of a sudden.

“Oh my God Alfred,” Taiwan gazed up at him in disbelief. “You’re on fire!”

“Hey, thanks! I always practice dancing in front of the TV at home so- HOLY FUCKING SHIT!” he screeched abruptly. From the corner of Alfred’s eye he saw that the wing of his jumper was alight and spreading rapidly: one of the fairy lights on his jumper had overheated and burst.

“AAAAIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE” the American screamed, leaping from the pile and dashing out down the hallway, fully ablaze.

“Alfred!” the Asian nations yelled after him, stumbling drunkenly from the ground in an attempt to catch up with the burning American.

11pm (again)

“What. The. Actual. Fuck.” Lukas was the only one of the Nordic’s who could react to scene they had just been witness too.

The five of them had been minding their own business by the front door (Peter had bounded off in search of his fellow micro nations) discussing the progress of the party, when a flaming Alfred F. Jones had torn towards them from down the hall. Berwald sidestepped him easily, tugging Tino and Emil out the American’s path. Mathias’ quick reflexes had yanked Lukas back, while the flames that licked Alfred’s being missed the Dane by a hair’s breadth. Alfred had steamed straight through them, bailing feet-first out of the glass porch, shattering it completely. He had carried on running into the snowfall for about five metres until he collapsed into a bed of snow.

“He was… on fire?” Emil said quietly, still stunned.

“I should check if he’s still alive,” Tino realised and jogged into the blizzard. He reached the patch of snow that Alfred had sunken into and pulled the fried nation’s arm over his shoulder. “Alfred, are you still with us?” he asked anxiously as he pulled the American onto his feet.

“Oooouuuuch,” whined Alfred, hugging his charred chest.

Tino looked back towards the porch, only to see that almost everyone from the party was now at gathered at the entrance, looking on apprehensively.

“Is he dead? Oh no, what a shame,” Ivan remarked sardonically from the porch. “It looks like there is a hole in the power vacuum…” he added darkly. New Zealand and Australia shuffled steadily away in fear.

“Ok you guys,” the Finn shouted through the snowfall. “We need to talk.”

11.30pm

“Now that everyone is finally accounted for, I’ll start,” Tino paced back and forth.

Everyone had been gathered into the main room again – some more worse-for-wear than others.

“You know, I’m not even surprised that one of you spiked the punch,” he continued.

Alfred sat half-dead on a chair in the corner, a steady stream of smoke rising from his naked torso. The poor boy’s upper body was already healing; however his nipples had been completely seared from his being. Gilbert – who had been shaken awake forcefully by Ludwig; the German had thought that his older brother had finally kicked the bucket – stood next to Mathew, the two of them staring awkwardly at their feet whilst scuffing the floor.

“And you know what?” Tino asked. “I don’t even care,” with that, he marched into the catering room, poured himself a large glass of punch, stepped back into main room and downed the lot in one swill. The room erupted with a roar of cheering. “Let’s get this party started properly!” the Finn exclaimed merrily.

“I have a karaoke machine in my car!” Yong Soo declared.

12am

“Relight my fire! Your love is my only desire~” the five Nordics sang, in impressive harmony no less. Alfred glared at them from the corner of the room, his wounds being treated by Molossia and Arthur. Suddenly Eduard slid in beside the Nord’s and busted out Lulu’s solo effortlessly (for some reason he was shirtless too). Yong Soo and Kiku had hooked the karaoke machine up to the impressive sound system in the main party room.

“Screw this,” Alfred got up from his chair with a grunt once their song was finally over. He hobbled to the karaoke area and was about to select _‘California Girls’_ when Ivan called in a sing song voice:

“Hey America, what is it like walking around with no nipples?”

“Easy baby; I’m smooth like a Ken doll!” Alfred retorted with a wink, lavishing both hands down his muscular torso.

“Dear God,” Arthur groaned, ashamed (and possibly a little aroused).

The Everclear punch had maxed out ten minutes ago, so now they were drinking from the Nordic’s own personal collection. They had wheeled out several wine racks from the cellar and set them laboriously at the back of the party room, behind the humongous Christmas tree, for all to enjoy.

Before Alfred could conduct his shirtless rendition of the Katy Perry song, there was a knock at the door. The party glanced at each other with puzzled expressions on their faces; hadn’t Tino just said that everyone had been accounted for? The Finn excused himself from the room and opened his one door that hadn’t been destroyed by Alfred F. Jones. A tall, tan woman wearing a hijab stood defiantly before him.

“I know that you know that I don’t celebrate Christmas,” Algeria stated, hands on hips. “But if you don’t let me join, that would be super racist.”

Meanwhile

Peter and his merry band of micro nations separated themselves from the main party and arrived in the kitchen. It was a vast space, with cupboards stocked high with ingredients and various worktops to prepare food on. India was at the other end of the room wearing a long cardigan that had been made from the finest silks. He had obviously gotten a bit peckish, so had started making a curry. Cameroon was working nearby him on another counter, baking cassava cake – on his sweater was a football with snowflakes knitted into the black hexagons.

Peter picked a counter immediately by the door and settled the plastic packet on the side.

“Kugel, this was your idea – what ingredients do we need?” Peter demanded.

The other boy thought for a while. “…flour, chocolate, caster sugar, butter and eggs.” He gestured to the bag on the counter and added “We already have cocoa powder.”

Peter turned to Ladonia and Wy, revelling in this small window of leadership. “Wy, you take the flour and caster sugar – it’s in that cupboard in the far corner. Ladonia, get the butter, eggs and chocolate from the fridge – lots of chocolate!” he added with a grin.

Meanwhile

Yong Soo was getting hungry. He had wondered the house for ten minutes now, trying to find the kitchen. He was about to ask the Nordics where it was but they had launched into a full blown rendition of Take That’s ‘ _Relight My Fire’_ on his karaoke machine, and the Korean figured he could find it quicker by himself rather than waiting for them to finish. After traipsing the whole vicinity he was somehow back where he started – in the hallway that led to the main party room where everyone was karaoke-ing.

His stomach growled viciously. “Ugh, man!” He groaned with both hands to belly. “What kind of cruel joke is this?”

“Don’t worry, I’m an America!” a shrill voice suddenly cried from the hallway door – the catering room. The Korean screamed.

“Oh,” Yong Soo realised with a chuckle, “It’s just a mochi!” He licked his lips. “A mochi… that’s just what I need…” He scooped up the thing in his hands. America mochi simply stared back at him with soulless blue orbs. The Korean tilted his head back, and just as it was about to slide in-

“No!” Eduard scrabbled frantically from the doorway of the party room, still shirtless. “DON’T EAT THAT MOCHI!” The Estonian leapt towards Yong Soo, but it was too late.

The Korean gulped down the rest of America Mochi and turned to Eduard in alarm. “Why? What’s wrong?” he fretted.

“Because-”

Eduard was cut off by Yong Soo suddenly throwing his head back and gagging. His body then lurched forward and the Korean lumbered into the party room with his shoulder’s hunched and his nails digging deep into his own scalp. The rest of the startled nations looked at him in horror and Eduard knew that he hadn’t been fast enough. All he could do now was watch.

“Im Yong Soo, what is wrong?” Yao asked cautiously with a deep crease of concern etched onto his own forehead. He took a small step towards the Korean.

Yong Soo’s head suddenly snapped towards the Chinaman. Yao gasped in revulsion: the boy’s face had been replaced completely by the face of America Mochi. His brown eyes had been replaced by large and unblinking baby blue ones. His mouth was curled into a ‘௰’ shape, and his once happy hair-curl was now also exhibiting the same face. A tense minute passed of the possessed Korean just staring into Yao’s very soul, when he suddenly bolted from the room and down the hall.

“WE HAVE TO CATCH HIM!” screamed Eduard to the disturbed group. Before anyone could ask him what exactly they had just witnessed, the Estonian was tumbling down the hall after Yong Soo. With no time for answers, Tino shook himself out of his horrified daze and dashed in close behind Eduard, beckoning the rest of the party to follow. The Korean had now thrown open the front door, grabbed Lukas’ staff and leapt outside - heading directly for the sleigh.

 _“That’s not possible,”_ Eduard thought to himself as he made it to the front doorway. _“Can he even use magic?”_

As if in response to this thought, the mochi-faced nation waved the staff high above his head. A crackle of lime green energy burst from the tip and snaked its way through the air, finally resting on the eight wire reindeer at the front of the sleigh. As they absorbed the magic, a thick layer of fur began sprouting from their metal frames. They started to twitch – first a hoof, then an ear, then a tail. With a final burst of white light, all eight reindeer were suddenly alive, shaking their bodies awake and sniffing the air. Eduard’s mouth hung slack.

Tino had also now arrived at the front door. “Eduard! Don’t just stand there – he’s stealing my sleigh!”

While the Estonian had been staring in awe at the reindeer transformation, the Korean had vaulted into the sleigh and took up the driver’s seat. The Finn darted out to stop him, but it was too late. Yong Soo had taken up the leather steering straps, and with a final “Hyaah!” he whipped them down onto the reindeer. They all jolted and began frantically scampering forward, slowly lifting themselves and the huge red sleigh into the air.

The rest of the party had made it to the door now and watched the Korean fly away into the night sky in shock and wonder.

“That can’t be good,” said Cuba.

Berwald stepped in beside Tino, and the Finn looked up at him with tears in his eyes. The Swede put a consoling hand on the smaller man’s shoulder.

Berwald turned to Lukas. “What can we do?” he asked.

The Norwegian shrugged.  “You should be asking him,” he pointed over to where Eduard was standing, who was shivering from the cold due to his lack of shirt.

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” Algeria piped up. “What exactly did we just witness, Eduard?”

The Estonian adjusted his glasses shakily. “C-can we go inside and talk about this? It’s freezing cold out here…”

12.30am

“So, what you’re saying is that you bought dangerous sentient entities to our party?” Ludwig glared down at Eduard, his muscular arms folded. They were all back in the party room.

“N-no, not dangerous, I mean - America Mochi is the only one that would pull a stunt like this,” the Estonian trembled.

“And where are the rest of these ‘mochis’, bastard?” Romano glowered.

“I managed to find them all and lock them in my car.” answered Eduard. “I was searching for America Mochi when I heard you guys” – he gestured to the Nordics – “singing Take That, and I couldn’t resist joining in…”

“You halted your search for a potentially dangerous creature so you could sing a bit of _Lulu_?” Arthur synopsised unbelievably. Eduard hung his head in shame.

“I have tried to phone Yong Soo but he will not pick up!” Yao held up his phone weakly. “This is all your fault!” he pointed to Eduard aggressively.

“Will he stay like that forever?” Taiwan asked, fiddling nervously with her hair. “I mean, with the mochi-face…” she shivered at the very thought.

“I don’t think so…” Eduard replied unconvincingly. “Hopefully it will be just like eating real food, so eventually he should, ahem…”

“He should what?” Leon pressed.

Eduard’s cheeks grew scarlet. “… Poop it out.”

“Aiyah! You so disgusting!” Yao cried indignantly.

The whole room was silent for a minute. It was never good to lose one of their own on Christmas day, or any day for that matter.

“Well, there’s no good in fretting about it now,” Antonio tried to reassure everybody. “We gotta look on the bright side, eh?”

“The booty-God has a point,” agreed Alfred. “Plus, all of this drama is making me kinda hungry.”

“Me too,” said Australia.

“Kitchen’s over there,” Tino informed monotonously, gesturing to a door along the hall.

Arthur approached the Finn. “Here,” the Englishman offered him some ale. “This will make you feel better, mate. I know what it’s like to lose a good ship.”

“Thanks,” Tino took the alcohol and chugged it down horribly fast. “I’ve had her for hundreds of years, y’know?”

Arthur nodded solemnly. From the corner of his eye he saw Alfred glaring at the floor and lightly kicking at it with his converse trainers. The poor American looked like a sad mess - his nipples were burnt out craters, and he still had black scorch marks running up his abs. The waistband of his denim jeans was also frayed and charred.

“Excuse me,” the Englishman nodded to Tino and paced over to the American.

“What’s wrong with you then?” Arthur asked.

“Man, it’s just… that thing that Yong Soo ate, that was… me?” the American stared guiltily into Arthur’s jade eyes.

“Well, yes, a mini-version of you,” he affirmed. “But don’t go blaming yourself for what happened.”

Alfred jutted his chin and puffed out his bare chest. “But I’m supposed to be the hero!”

“Jesus lad, I didn’t know you were such a depressing drunk,” Arthur sighed wearily. “Maybe some food will cheer you up?”

Alfred’s eyes sparkled. “Yeah! Food is happy!”

 _“Bloody hell, he’s hammered,”_ Arthur thought to himself. He caught sight of Berwald leading Australia and Roderich to the kitchen. The Englishman and the American slipped in behind the three of them.

“Oh, it’s you,” Australia slurred, jabbing a muscular finger into Arthur’s chest. The pun on his jumper struck Arthur as particularly awful - _‘Merry CROCmas’_.

“And your favourite boy!” Kyle cackled in Alfred’s face.

“Huh?” Alfred, oblivious as he is, had no idea what the Australian meant by ‘favourite boy’.

“What have I created…” Arthur murmured harshly to himself.

“Here we are,” Berwald interrupted as they reached the kitchen door.

“Pooh! What is that ghastly smell?” Roderich gasped, pinching his nose.

Berwald’s pale blue eyes narrowed. He grabbed the kitchen door handle and yanked it open, causing a rush of air to escape from inside.

“Dude, is that pot?” Alfred sniffed.

Arthur peered into the kitchen only to find Peter, Ladonia, Wy and KugelMugel lounging lazily on the kitchen floor together with a plate of brownie crumbs between them. They were surrounded by empty packets of crisps and biscuits, and all four of them had content smiles on their cheerful little faces. India and Cameroon were knelt down beside them, exchanging rushed questions and giving each other worried side-glances.

“What the devil happened in here?” demanded Arthur, storming over to the huddle of nations. The four kids looked up in alarm and fear at the Englishman. They shared a few pleading looks with each other before suddenly bursting into a fit of snorts and giggles. Arthur glanced to Cameroon for an explanation, but he just shrugged.

“It appears they have eaten a prohibited substance,” India explained.

“You mean they made hash brownies?” Alfred chuckled, gaining a warning glance from Arthur.

“Yes,” India continued. “They have also ransacked the kitchen – they even stole my curry,” India shook his head woefully.

“Wait, are you telling me there’s no food left?” Alfred urged, panic rising in his voice.

“That’s not important right now!” cried Roderich. “Republic of KugelMugel, get up this instant!”

Kugel looked up at the Austrian lazily. “No.”

Roderich gaped. “How dare you disobey me? Come here right now!”

“He said ‘no’ old bloke,” Wy threw her arm protectively around Kugel’s shoulders.

Roderich turned to Australia. “Do something about your micro nation,” He commanded haughtily.

“ _My_ micronation?  She’s her own woman, ya bludger,” the Australian replied proudly.

“Fine, handle these _infants_ yourself,” Roderich huffed and stepped briskly from the kitchen.

“That bloody Netherlands,” Arthur growled. “Giving this stuff to children… I’ll have him for this.”

“So… what should we do with them?” Alfred asked. The four micro nations were still slouched against one another on the ground.

“I say we leave ‘em,” Australia proposed. “They ain’t doing no harm as they are.”

Arthur looked up at Berwald, who simply shrugged.

“I don’t agree with leaving them in this state, but they appear to be dozing off anyway. We’ll inform everyone that all of the food is gone, so nobody should come in here and disturb their sleep,” said the Englishman.

“I’ll keep an eye on them,” the Swede assured.

“But what _are_ we gonna do about food?” whined Alfred.

“How about we order a pizza, yeah?” Arthur offered in a comforting tone. Alfred squealed excitedly and grinned.

“Hell yeah! Let’s order _everyone_ pizza!” Alfred fist-bumper the air and proceeded to do a little happy dance.

“But for the love of God, do cover yourself up lad,” Arthur reached around and pulled his own green jumper over his head, then threw it over to the American. “It won’t fit, but at least you’ll regain some dignity. Now, I need to get some drink in me before I go insane.” He added before excusing himself from the kitchen.


End file.
